


No Good Deed

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In John Reese's experience, waking up inside the trunk of a speeding car was never a good sign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [No Good Deed 好人难做](https://archiveofourown.org/works/966457) by [LeeDD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeDD/pseuds/LeeDD)



> **Disclaimer:** The characters of Person of Interest don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit by doing so.
> 
> **A/N:** English is not my first language, so there will be mistakes. Sorry about that.

_*Tock*_

_*Tock*_

_*Ta tock*_

_*Tock*_

The incessant noise was starting to thoroughly annoy the hell out of John Reese as it disturbed his state of sweet oblivion. At every _tock_ his head lifted slightly off the carpeted ground it rested on, only to flop back down right away. The more Reese returned to awareness, the more sensation flooded back into his being. The air he smelled was old and musty with an underlying note of gasoline, oil and rubber. To make matters even worse, with each involuntary bounce of his head, splitting pain shot through his brain.

_*Tock*_

He groaned. 

“Mr. Reese?” Harold’s voice was way too loud in his ear and he might have groaned again, though John wasn't entirely sure.

"John? Can you hear me?"

The worry and urgency in Finch's voice caught John's attention. In his experience, Harold Finch only adopted that kind of tone when things were going downhill fast.  
Deciding that it was probably a good idea to get his act together, Reese cautiously opened his eyes. Previous experiences with waking up after not really remembering having gone to sleep in the first place and having a woodpecker happily chip away at his brain had taught him the painful lesson, that letting bright light hit his unprepared retina generally only added to his grief. 

John blinked a few times surprised at the lack of the dreaded bright light. Actually, the lack of any light. He wanted to probe if something was maybe covering his head, but found his arms were locked in a painful position behind his back, tied securely together. All in all, the position he had found himself in was a very uncomfortable one. 

The space around him was extremely confined, which had resulted in his long frame having literally been folded in order for him to fit. He was lying on his left side, his legs bent sharply at his knees, cutting of the circulation to his feet. His knees dug painfully into the wall and there wasn't much room for moving his head about either. To make matters worse, his overzealous captor even had gone that far and bound his arms and legs together. 

It wasn't hard for John to figure out where he was, since he - unfortunately - had ended up in quite similar situations before. And in his experience, waking up, tied up like a Brezel, inside the trunk of a - from the sounds of it - speeding car was never a good sign.

Although, John was still a little foggy on the details on how he ended up in the trunk, he was pretty sure that the last thing he remembered before waking up was that he had just successfully extracted their latest number out of a potentially deathly situation. Trying to rib off the Russian mob was not just extremely dangerous, but also monumentally stupid and Reese had been in the process of explaining that to the half-wit, whose number the machine had spat out the day before, when he had made the mistake of taking his attention off the guy for just a second. That was when all lights went out.

John wanted to scream in frustration, but since his head was still the home to an entire family of woodpeckers, he decided against it. Wouldn't do him any good anyway. 

"Mr. Reese?!" John winced at the renewed spark of pain Finch's voice caused, adding to the already painful throbbing behind his temples. What the hell had that guy used to knock him out? A tire iron?

"Yeah, Finch. I'm here." he croaked before Harold decided to give screaming in his ear another try.

"Oh, thank God." Harold sighed in relief. "Are you alright?"

Reese took a moment to consider the question, but beside his throbbing head and aching extremities he couldn't feel anything else that would point to a more life threatening injury.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He let his head drop back down onto the carpet, allowing his unhappy neck muscles to take a break from holding it up at an awkward angle. "Just a little tied up, at the moment." John paused, then added dryly, "literally."

"I hardly deem your current situation as a joking matter and, seriously, Mr. Reese", the relief in Harold's voice had quickly changed into slight irritation, "where were you on the day they covered 'precaution' at spy school?"

"Now", Reese growled as he tried to move himself into a position were he might be able to pry open the trunk lid, "is not the time." John tried to assert pressure on the lid by bracing his knees against it and arching his back off the trunk floor. But due to the awkward way his hands and feet were tied together he wasn't able to produce enough force, or even get his feet into the position he wanted. Frustrated he gave up. "Besides, you were the one who distracted me", he said quietly, inflicting his voice with just a slight undercurrent of accusation. "And I don't remember you warning me that Mr. Ferretti was planning to double-cross us."

"I guess we both didn't see that coming. He probably didn't like the idea of being send out of town without his money." Having toned down his irritation, Finch even sounded a little contrite at having been a factor in John's capture. "At least he didn't take your phone. I've been tracking your signal and have alerted the Detectives to your latest predicament. They are en route."

Great, John thought. At least last time he'd been able to somewhat gracefully stumble out and away from the burning car, which trunk he'd had the pleasure of further inspecting, by himself. Now, tied up like he was, he was going to be at the mercy of the two Detectives. 

"How long was I out?" he wondered out loud. He doubted that he would suffocate, but the air was getting rather stuffy. 

"About twenty minutes. Of which fifteen you've spent on the move." Finch replied immediately. 

Well, Reese had to give Mr. Ferretti some credit. Five minutes for getting him inside this tiny trunk and tying him up was not bad. John shifted, trying to get more comfortable, but only ended up having his back press against the cold metal of the latch. Something else was digging into the flesh of his back and he realized beside the phone the idiot even left him his gun. Now, if he could only get to it, but no matter which kind of contortion he tried to perform there was no reaching it. 

Alerted by the increase in huffs and painful grunts, the traces of worry in Harold Finch's voice were minute and most likely undetectable by most, but John had picked up on his friend's tells a long time ago. "Mr. Reese, are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes, Harold, I'm fine." John reassured the other man, once more. Resigning himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get out of his bonds by himself, John tried to relax, reserving as much energy as he could for the moment the trunk lid was going to be opened. "I'd just like to get some fresh air."

"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Reese. Looks like Mr. Ferretti is heading to the docks."

John wasn't that worried. Unless Mr. Ferretti got any stupid ideas - like setting the car on fire - Reese was confident that he could overpower the 5ft 4'' tall man even with his hands bound behind his back. Nevertheless, a little backup wouldn't hurt. "How far behind are the Detectives?" he asked.

"About 15 minutes." replied Finch.

"Tell them to step on it."

"I already have, Mr. Reese."

Reese noticed that the car's speed must have decreased considerably. A couple of minutes later it came to a complete stop and the sound of doors being opened reached his ears, though the engine kept on running. Expecting the trunk lid to open any minute now, Reese flexed his muscles, ready to move as soon as the opportunity arose. 

"Finch, we've stopped. How long until the Detectives get here?" he whispered into the darkness.

"They are still at least 10 minutes out."

The worry in Finch's voice went up a notch and John had to admit that waiting in the darkness and not knowing what was going to happen was getting to him, as well. Reese listened intently, trying to gauge Ferretti's whereabouts and his proximity to the trunk. He heard the crunch of someone stepping on gravel on concrete and felt the car rock back and forth. What the hell was the guy doing?

Suddenly the engine revved up again and the car lurched forwards, picking up speed fast with a screaming engine. 

"Mr. Reese, what's going on?" Harold asked, but before John could unnecessarily inform him that they were moving again, Finch cut in, definitely horrified this time. "Oh God. You are heading for the Hudson!"

Reese understood immediately what Ferretti had been up to moments before and he once more took up his fruitless efforts to break open the lid. Suddenly, he felt weightless for a brief moment only to crash down hard against the backside of the rear seats as the car impacted with the water. 

John got the breath knocked out of him with a painful grunt, but he knew he didn't have the time to worry about catching it again. He struggled, trying to turn on his knees to press his back against the lid, but the space was just too narrow and with his arms and legs bound together he had no chance of getting his knees under him.  
Harold was calling out his name over and over, demanding to know what was happening. 

John did the math. The Detectives had been 10 minutes away when the car stopped. It had taken Ferretti about 3 minutes to rig the car to drive itself into the river. Water was already streaming through the cracks, filling the tiny space and he'd give it a minute until there would be no air left. He figured he'd be able to hold his breath 2 minutes. 3 tops. That left three minutes - not counting the time it would take the Detectives to get him out of the trunk. Three minutes for him to drown. Probably more. 

"Mr. Reese!" Finch shouted in his ear. The water had already risen above his left shoulder, splashing against the side of his face. At least fate would have it that his phone was in the pocket of his coat on the side he was not lying on already submerged in water. 

"Harold", he said quietly.

"John!" Harold's voice was distorted as the connection started to break up the deeper the car sank under water. John knew that he might only have a few more moments left before he got disconnected. 

"Harold, I'm sorry." he said calmly. "I ..."

"No!" Finch cut him off with vehemence. "I'm not going to let you say goodbye, John. Not again."

"Harold."

"They are almost there! You have got to hang on!" Reese couldn't help but smile at the commanding tone Finch's voice had adopted.

A soft thud went through the car and John felt a dampened impact. He had reached the river ground and by now, he was almost completely immersed in the water, craning his neck as far as he could to keep his face above the surface. Odds were that this was going to be the last time he would get to say goodbye, so he had to make it count.

"Thank you, Harold. For everything."

"John, no, you've got ..." Whatever Finch had been about to say was cut off as the water level rose above Reese's ear. 

John strained his neck as far as he could to keep his face out of the water, but he could feel as the cold liquid slowly and unstoppable crept higher.

Breathing shallowly until the water reached his mouth, John took one last deep breath through his nose before he was completely submerged. He closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles, letting his head sink back down to the trunk floor. 

Everything was quiet now, except for his own slow and steady heart beat in his ear. John cleared his mind of all thought. Well, he tried, but found that he had trouble disconnecting his mind from his body like he had been trained to do and had done so many times before. Two years ago he would have gladly given in, knowing that there was nothing left for him to live for. But now - and John guessed he shouldn't really be surprised - he realized that he didn't want to die. Not now. Not here. And definitely not like this.

His lungs started to burn, craving the needed oxygen. John tried once more to concentrate his thoughts on the memories of the last time he had felt truly happy and content, but they kept drifting back to the here and now. His lungs were practically screaming for air now and his heart was beating like a jack hammer in his ears.

His eyes shot open as he couldn't suppress his body's need for oxygen any longer. But instead of blessed air, ice cold water shot into his lungs and stomach. John's body jerked as he choked on the water, doing its best to cough it back out only ending up with even more water entering his airways. 

Even though he knew that there was nothing he could do to save himself, panic took over and Reese began thrashing around, desperately trying to free himself of his restraints, only to accelerate the depletion of the last precious remnants of oxygen in his bloodstream.

The jerky movements became less frequent as his strength literally fled his body. The panic John had felt only moments before was gone, replaced by a deep and all-encompassing tranquility as he accepted the inevitable. He felt warm, smelling the rich fragrance of blooming flowers on a warm, sunny day. A small smile played around John Reese's lips as he felt the soft wisps of blond hair, smelling of sweet roses, caress his face. Familiar - yet almost forgotten - laughter echoed through his mind, before he knew no more and his eyes kept staring - unseeing - into the cold, wet darkness that surrounded his lifeless body.


	2. Chapter 2

Carter was holding on to the passenger door handle for dear life as Fusco sped recklessly towards the docks. It was not the first time that the Detectives had been called to assist John Reese by whatever mess he'd gotten into, but to describe Finch's last call to urge them to pick up their speed as 'frantic' would be an understatement. Knowing that the well-spoken man was not usually prone to emotional outbursts, hearing his voice crack as he explained the details of Wonderboy's worsening predicament actually left both of the Detectives quite rattled. 

They made it to the dock in record time. Their cruiser came to a stop with screeching tires and, with both of them wasting no time, they were out of their seats even before the vehicle was completely standing still. Racing to the edge of the dock, they both peered down at the dark, smooth surface of the Hudson River, trying to spy the location of the car that Finch had told them had been driven into the river with a tied up John Reese in its trunk. 

“There!” Fusco shouted and pointed at a shape that was slightly darker than the surrounding water and immediately began taking off his jacket as Carter eyed the approximately 6 foot drop, seeing no ladders in their near vicinity.

“Wait.” Carter exclaimed, causing Fusco, who was about to jump into the water, to freeze and look at her questioningly as she headed back to their cruiser. “I’ll go”, she threw over her shoulder in way of explanation. “You’ll have to pull us back up.”

She went to the cruiser’s trunk, stashed her coat and got rid of her shoes, picked up the standard issue lock-pick and a knife and hurried back to the edge of the dock. She locked eyes with her partner once more, who told her with a nod of his head that he would have her back, and then she jumped.

Entering the cold water of the Hudson was quite the shock to her system, even though she’d tried to prepare herself beforehand. Breaking the surface, she gulped in one more deep breath of air before diving down towards the dark shape. 

The closer she got, the clearer she could make out the contour of the car. The Hudson wasn’t that deep at that particular spot, but with her movements hindered by the lock-pick in her hand it took Carter longer to reach the ground than she would have liked. 

With practiced ease she forced the lock on the trunk’s lid open, then let the cumbersome tool drop to the muddy ground. Even though visibility wasn’t great through the murky water, she recognized that Reese’s still form was lying on his side, with his back towards her, his arms and legs awkwardly pulled back and bound together. Taking out the knife, she got to work on the rope. 

Her lungs were starting to burn, but she was determined not to leave Reese down here longer than was necessary. Cutting through the rope took longer than Carter had anticipated, but with the way Reese’s body was contorted, she wouldn’t be able to get a good grip on him otherwise. 

Finally the rope snapped and Carter exhaled some of her precious air in relief. Returning the knife to the pocket of her pants, she reached for Reese’s body and hooked her right arm through his tied up arms. She managed to pull him out of the confined space, the weightlessness from being submerged in water coming to her advantage. 

Clutching John tightly to her body she hurried to get the both of them back to the surface. Her air supply was nearly depleted and her lungs screamed for fresh oxygen. The urge to breathe was unbearable and Reese’s dead weight was dragging her down, but she still had a few more feet to go and letting go of John was not an option. 

Carter almost didn’t realize it when she finally reached the surface, coughing and sputtering. She went under once more, swallowing a good deal of water. Fighting to get back to the surface, she tightened her grip around Reese. 

Fusco was yelling something from above, but she couldn’t make out his exact words. Instead, she just swam blindly in the direction of his voice.

“Carter! Grab the rope!” Fusco shouted and Carter briefly wondered where Lionel had procured a rope, but she really didn’t care at the moment. Looking up, she found it dangling right in front of her and she was glad that Fusco had had the foresight to already tie a noose at the end. 

Carter managed to get the noose around Reese’s torso and underneath his arms, yelling for Fusco to pull him up. John hung sideways inside the noose, the rope most likely pulling very uncomfortably at his shoulder sockets, but with his arms still tied at his back it just had to be this way. 

As John’s body got pulled upwards Carter found herself staring into his blue and very unseeing eyes, his long eyelashes glued together by droplets of water. The water dripping down on the right side of his face was tinted a light red as blood from an apparent head wound mingled with the river water. For the first time the thought that they might actually be too late forced itself to the forefront of her mind and she had to look away. When she looked back up again she witnessed as John’s feet disappeared over the edge. 

The cold was slowly getting to her as she was treating water and she was about to call up to her partner, when Fusco’s face reappeared over her, tossing the rope back down.

By the time Carter finally reached terra firma again she was shivering uncontrollably and would have loved to just lie there and breathe for the rest of the week. But knowing that every second counted in saving John Reese’s life she clumsily untangled herself from the rope and crawled over to the still form lying not far away from her.

Fusco, who had sprinted back to their cruiser after he’d pulled Carter out of the river, returned as Joss reached the body, fumbling for the army knife in her pocket. He dropped the first aid kit and the AED beside John’s head and took the knife out of Carter’s trembling hands.

“Do we know how long he’d been under?” Carter asked with chattering teeth as Fusco swiftly got rid of the ropes around John’s wrists.

“At least five minutes, if not more.” He said grimly as he turned Reese onto his back.

Fusco had checked for a pulse and hadn't found one at the man’s neck when he’d first pulled him out of the water. Now, he immediately reached for Reese’s shirt, ripping it open. He cursed as his efforts exposed a white bullet-proof vest, instead of an undershirt or bare chest. In most of the predicaments John Reese seemed to end up in on a regular basis, wearing a bullet-proof vest was definitely a smart move, but now all it did was causing them to lose precious seconds in saving his life. Seconds he might not have.

“Damnit.” Fusco grumbled under his breath as he started to unfasten the Velcro shoulder and side straps. They still would have to somehow get that thing out from underneath him, which meant they’d have to get rid of his shirt and jacket, too.

Catching on to their problem Carter held out her hand. “Give me the scissors from the AED equipment.” Fusco did as he was told and they both – Lionel with the knife – worked feverishly on cutting through the cloth of John’s expensive suit.

Together they pulled first his clothes, then the vest from Reese’s torso, his gun clanking onto the concrete as it was unintentionally dislodged from John's waistband in the process. Carter placed the weapon aside, while Fusco used his previously discarded jacket to dry John off as best he could before attaching the electrodes of the AED to his exposed chest.

The mechanical voice of the device informed them of what they both had already expected. It could not detect a shock-able heart rhythm. While Fusco placed the palm of his right hand on Reese’s breast bone and his left hand on top of his right, Carter made sure that John’s airways were clear, tilting his head back to allow the air she was about to force into his lungs an unencumbered flow.

Fusco began to press down on Reese’s chest, counting out loud the numbers of compressions. After completing ten compressions he paused. Carter pinched John’s nose closed and placed her mouth over his slightly blue lips, slowly exhaling. Out of the corner of her eyes she watched John’s chest rise and fall again and she proceeded to breathe for John one more time.

Fusco began to press down on John’s chest again, counting out loud, while Carter kept whispering to herself. “C’mon. C’mon.”

At ten it was Carter’s turn to once more force air into Reese’s lung and she desperately hoped his chest would keep on rising and falling on its own accord, but it stayed disappointingly still after his lung had deflated again for the second time.

Sweat was starting to form on Fusco’s forehead as he continued with the ten-compressions-rhythm. 

“C’mon, John. Breathe!” Carter wasn’t whispering anymore as she looked at John’s pale face. His eyes were still staring unseeingly passed her and she once again found that she had to look away.

They kept up their efforts for another three cycles, when their concentration was broken by a beep from the AED, informing them with its mechanical voice that it had detected a shock-able heart-rhythm.

"Carter, stay clear", instructed Fusco breathlessly and Carter scrambled to make sure that she wasn't kneeling in the same puddle of water that had formed around John and her soaking self. The last thing they needed was to get one of them electrocuted in the process.

"Ok", she said, nodding for Fusco to go ahead.

Fusco pressed the button and John's body arched off the ground as about 120 Joules were sent through his torso. As soon as his body had collapsed back down Carter reached for John's neck, searching for a pulse. Still finding none, she pressed her lips in a tight line, shaking her head.

Fusco cursed under his breath. "Damnit, Wonderboy."

With increased effort Fusco continued to press down on Reese's chest. Sometime around the 6th compression he felt one of John's ribs give way underneath his hands, flinching at the very audible snapping sound. 

Breathing hard Fusco watched as Carter administered mouth to mouth. Checking his watch he noted with dismay that they'd been at it for a little over five minutes already. The AED beside him chirped once more, alerting them that it was ready for the next round.

Another shock of current coursed through John's body, causing it to arch off the ground. He collapsed without showing any signs of life and Carter checked for a pulse again, shaking her head.

Fusco sat back, dejection written all over his face. Noting that Fusco wasn't continuing with the chest compressions Carter looked at him incredulously. "Fusco, what are you doing?" she inquired sharply.

"Carter ..." he began, seeing only futility in their efforts, but Carter interrupted him with vehemence.

"No! We are not giving up on him." She stubbornly shook her head. "Not yet."

The resolve in Carter's voice left no argument. Still, Fusco hesitated. They had no idea how long exactly Reese had been underwater. For all he knew, John's brain might already have suffered irreparable damage and getting his heart to beat again wouldn't mean that they would get him back. 

Joss sensed her partners hesitation and doubts, and she understood what he was thinking, but she'd be damned if she let John Reese slip away without a fight. "Please, Lionel." she asked quietly.

Fusco looked down at Reese's still form and back up at Carter again. Even though his life had become complicated on so many levels ever since John Reese had shown up to intimidate him and boss him around, he had to concede that working on Wonderboy and Mr. Vocabulary's cases had helped to make him feel good about himself and what he was doing for the first time in a very long while. He didn't want it to end. Not like this.

He nodded at Carter, taking up his task of rhythmically pressing down on Reese's chest, counting out loud. 

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

_Breathe_

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

_Breathe_

"One, two, three, four, five, six, breathe, God, damn, it."

Fusco put everything he had left into the compressions, his muscles protesting against the unaccustomed strain. He heard and felt another bone snap under the pressure he forced upon the ribcage, but didn't let up.

"One, two, three, four, ..." Fusco's counting was interrupted by the AED. His hand was shaking from the exertion as he reached for the button a third time. 

"Clear?" he asked.

"Clear."

John Reese's back arched off of the ground like it did before as the current shot through his body, collapsing limply back down again. Carter was reaching for John's neck and startled as Reese's body jerked and he started to literally cough up his lungs, choking on the water his body was desperately trying to get rid of.


	3. Chapter 3

John had been floating without awareness inside a world of warm, blessed nothingness. The weight of his guilt and regrets having been taken off his mind as it didn’t mater who or what he used to be. Nothing mattered anymore, and he let himself be engulfed by the darkness without fear, welcoming it. 

Suddenly, his world turned into bright light that stabbed mercilessly at his eyes, causing a flash of pain to shoot through his head. He clamped his eyes shut and with the light, other sensation flooded back into his consciousness.

His chest burnt like it was on fire and his stomach felt like it was trying to twist itself into knots. But most distressingly, he couldn’t breathe!

John’s eyes snapped open in panic at the same moment his body’s reflexes set in and he started to cough up the water that had been blockading his lungs. Closing his eyes again against the harsh light, he vaguely felt being rolled onto his side, the cramps in his stomach releasing as he vomited up even more water. He didn’t know how long it took for him to cough up his lung and he didn’t care. All he knew was that his world was trying to match the very definition of being miserable. 

His head throbbed in pain to every beat of his heart, his lungs were burning, his stomach was still very unhappily clenching and unclenching with cramps and his chest was just plain killing him. In addition to his bodily aches, he was freezing and uncontrollable shudders ripped through his body. There was just no way in hell he could get any more miserable.

For the life of him he couldn’t remember what might have caused his poor condition and he was definitely lacking the energy to even try to worry about his lack of memory. With the coughing having subsided all John wanted was to go back into the place of no awareness, but someone kept lightly slapping his cheek and the constant droning he’d been hearing slowly morphed into words.

“John? John, can your hear me?”

Reese groaned as he was pulled farther and farther away from unconsciousness. He cracked open his eyes and tried to weakly fend off the next slapping attack to his face. “I’m here”, he mumbled, though the sounds escaping his mouth didn't even come close to the actual words, hoping that it would be enough for whoever was fussing over him to leave him be.

The voice – actually, voices, John realized – continued to speak but John let the sound just wash over him. His efforts of curling himself into a ball where prematurely stopped as, at least, two pairs of hands pretty much manhandled him into a sitting position. He hissed, as the movement caused the pain in his chest to multiply immensely. 

The more lucid part of his brain, relying on his training – which, apparently, at the moment was a very small part – urged him that he couldn’t stay, that he had to get away from … wherever he was. But as he felt himself being covered in an emergency blanket, which effectively shut out the cold, he didn’t care that he wasn’t able to hide his evident weakness or that he had to lean heavily on whoever was sitting beside him, because, somehow, he knew that he was save.

He let himself being pulled to his feet without resistance and did his best to shuffle to where ever he was being guided, his world continuing to be a never ending haze. He ended up sitting on something soft. Preciously warm air blew in his face and effectively put an end to his shaking and chattering teeth. The voices were still there, humming in the background as John, once more, welcomed the darkness, that took away all the pain.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Harold Finch had realized what their current number had planned to do with the car that held John Reese as a prisoner in its trunk he had shot out of his chair in front of his computer system at the library.

Now, after having lost contact to Mr. Reese and having placed an uncharacteristically frantic call to the Detectives to really step on it, he sank back down into his chair, staring at his screens that usually allowed him to work through any crisis, but were utterly useless to him now. 

There was nothing Harold Finch could do to help his friend. So, he stared at his monitors, not really seeing them, with his hands palms down on the wooden table top, turning slick with sweat and his heart racing as he listened to what was happening on the dock through the uplink to Detective Fusco’s cell phone. 

His lips drew into a thin line and his fingers slowly curled into tight fists with every count to ten that ended in John’s condition being unchanged. The sinking feeling that this time help might have been too late was starting to manifest itself deeply within his being, causing his stomach to turn into a tight knot. 

Finch had lost count of how many times he had heard Fusco count to ten, or how many times John’s heart had been shocked. Without his conscious consent, his mind started to get accustomed with the thought that from now on, John Reese wouldn’t be there to help him with his little venture anymore. He couldn't help but mentally go through the list of steps he'd have to set in motion for his contingency to take effect. Turning to logic had always been his brain's way of dealing with situations that were running the danger of becoming emotional and this was no exception.

Finch looked at Bear, who’d been observing him from his spot beside the desk, and remembered how devastated the dog had been when Mr. Reese had been locked up at Rikers and he briefly, yet detachedly wondered how the Malinois would react if John never came back. He was pretty sure, that one of John's suit jackets serving as a blanket for the dog to lie on wouldn't cut it this time. 

From the sounds of it, the Detective’s efforts were growing more desperate with each CPR cycle and, though not a man of religion, Finch lowered his head, praying that, wherever John Reese might now be, he was at peace.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by horrible coughing and retching. At first, Harold Finch didn’t quite understand what he was hearing, but as comprehension dawned on him relief washed over him in tidal waves as he let go of the breath he hadn’t realized that he had been holding, covering his face with shaking hands.

A few minutes later, his cell phone rang and Harold answered Fusco’s call sounding calm and collected, having gotten control over his emotional turmoil. Still, hearing from the Detective that John was alive was music to his ears. He gave the Detective the address of one of his safe houses and told them he would meet them there. 

“And Detective?” Harold said, stopping the Detective from hanging up his phone.

“Yeah?” Fusco sounded breathless and infinitely tired.

Harold swallowed down a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. “Thank you”, he said with heartfelt sincerity, “for not giving up on him.”

For a moment there was only silence on the line and Finch could only guess what went through the Detective’s head. Fusco cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, anytime.” He said, trying to sound nonchalantly, though the hoarseness in his voice told Harold that the Detective was anything but. 

Having ended the call, Harold sat still at his desk for a few more seconds. Taking a deep breath, he mentally shook himself. He'd _really_ have to have that talk with Mr. Reese about his penchant for getting into hairy situations. Getting up he took Bear on his leash and hurried to meet up with the Detectives, to see with his own eyes that Mr. Reese was okay and to make sure that, if need be, he'd get the best medical treatment money could buy.


	4. Chapter 4

_\- next day -_

 

Harold Finch sat in front of his numerous screens, engrossed in his research into the newest number that had come in earlier that morning. The untouched cup of green tea beside his keyboard had grown cold hours ago.

Bear was lying on his doggy bed next to Harold’s desk, softly snoring. Pricking up his ears at sounds only the dog’s sensitive ears could hear, Bear’s head shot up off his front paws. Sniffing the air and picking up a familiar scent the dog sat up, happily whacking his tail.

Alerted by the dog’s movements Harold looked up from his screens in time to watch John Reese round the corner of the stairwell. Bear bounded over to Reese, jumping excitedly up and down in front of his master until the man stiffly dropped down on one knee and allowed the dog to thoroughly lick the side of his face, while gently weaving his fingers through Bear’s fur.

Harold observed with a small smile of his own as John greeted the dog with one of the rare, yet genuine cheek-to-cheek smiles plastered on his face.  
Giving Bear one last pat John straightened up and Harold noted again the slight stiffness in the other man’s movement.

“Mr. Reese, what are you doing here?” 

Reese smirked at Finch. “Good morning to you, too, Harold.” He said amused, walking up to Finch’s desk. “Last time I checked, I work here.”

Finch looked up at Reese from where he sat in his chair, closely regarding his employee. Besides the stiffness to his movements, the slight paleness to his face and a bruise high on his right temple, courtesy of a tire iron swung by Mr. Ferretti, there was nothing else hinting at the ordeal the man had endured not quite 24 hours before. At least nothing that Harold could detect. 

“You died yesterday, Mr. Reese.” Harold said dryly as he turned his attention back to his screens. “What kind of employer would I be if I didn’t give you at least one day off?”

Reese tilted his head to the side and seemed to be actually considering Finch’s question. 

“Seriously", Finch said, slightly exasperated, "go home and get some rest.” 

At the thought, Reese’s face contorted into a grimace. “I got bored.” He moved over to a spare chair and pushed it closer to Finch’s desk. “Besides, I’m fine.”

Finch raised an eyebrow when the motion of sitting down elicited a painful wince to travel across John’s face that he didn’t quite manage to hide. “Yes, clearly.”

Scowling at a less than impressed Finch with his devotion to his job, Reese squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position that was not putting too much strain on his ribs. Giving up, he hunched forward, wrapping an arm around his ribcage. He didn’t have to look at Harold to know that he was disapprovingly staring at him. 

Not acknowledging Finch’s disapproval, John fixed his gaze on one of Finch’s screens. “We have a new number?”

Finch scrutinized John for a few seconds, probably calculating how much trouble it would be to force the younger man to go to get some rest. Deciding that it wasn’t worth it, he slowly nodded his head. “Yes, it came in earlier this morning.”

Reese smirked in victory and got up to collect the print out of the picture, talking on his way over to the printer. “Whatever happened to Mr. Ferretti?” he asked, nonchalantly.

“He had a run-in with the people he’d ripped off while trying to collect the stolen money.” Pausing, Finch waited for Reese to turn around, before he continued matter-of-factly. “I’m afraid he didn’t fare that well.”

Reese shrugged. “I can’t say I’m feeling sorry for him.” He commented and made his way to their glass board, stiffly taping the picture onto it.   
Harold had to admit that he agreed with Mr. Reese. After all, they had only tried to help Mr. Ferretti out and he thanked them by nearly killing his only employee.

Reese returned to stand next to Harold's chair to read the information Finch had so far collected about their newest number, subconsciously wrapping an arm around his aching ribcage.

John had to admit that his memories of the events following the submersion of the car were a little more than hazy. He remembered waking up briefly at some time. Disoriented at first, he'd sunken back into the covers of the bed with Bear's warm presence right beside him and the soft tapping sounds of key strokes doing wonders in easing his initial fight-or-flight instinct. 

The next time he woke, earlier this morning, he'd found himself in an unfamiliar bedroom, Bear's side of the bed empty and cold, his ribs tightly wrapped, and a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water on the bedside table. At first he'd decided to skip the pills, but after his first wrong move had ignited a veritable fire within his ribcage and woken the family of woodpeckers in his head he revised his earlier decision. 

Wincing in pain again as he took a too deep breath he caught Finch shooting him a worried glance. “I’m fine.” John reiterated his statement from before, though judging by Finch’s expression he still wasn’t buying it.

Having someone around who genuinely cared and fussed over his well-being was still something John had trouble getting used to. The years in the service had taught him to just ‘suck it up’ to the point were receiving even the tiniest bit of worried attention made him feel uncomfortable. And for the life of him he couldn’t remember what had happened to him that justified the two broken ribs his careful probing earlier had revealed.

“Though, I don’t remember being hit by a truck.” John joked softly, trying to make light of the situation. 

Not the slightest bit amused Finch contorted his body so he was able to look up at John. “That would have been Detective Fusco, trying to save your life.” He said sternly. He turned back to his monitors, his voice betraying just the slightest hint of emotion. “That’s not something you should joke about.”

Sinking down in his chair again, John regarded Harold’s profile, noting the deep lines of worry around the older man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Harold. I ... Wait.” Suddenly, Reese’s eyes widened slightly as Finch’s words sang in. “Fusco did CPR? On me?” he asked, his voice rising just a little bit too much, not able to completely hide the fact that he was horrified at the thought of the Detective’s lips having come way too close to his for his liking. John averted his gaze from Harold's profile, desperately trying to block the mental image that had forced itself upon his mind's eye.

Finch stopped typing, swiveled his chair to take a quick look at Reese and turned back to face his monitors again. “Don’t worry”, Finch’s lips lightly curled up into a smirk, “you don’t have to send the Detective flowers just yet.” He paused, pretending to think it over. John returned his gaze back to Finch, slightly raising an eyebrow and silently asking him to elaborate.

Keeping his attention on his computer screens, Harold schooled his features into an uninterested mask, deliberately sounding absentmindedly. “Although, you might want to consider sending some to Detective Carter. As I understand it, reviving you from the dead was more of a joint effort.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Harold watched as John's head sunk forward, hands moving up to cover his face and Harold allowed the smirk to reappear on his lips. He turned to study the man beside him briefly, his face growing serious as he involuntarily thought back to the moments where he believed his friend to have been lost.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold said softly.

"What?" John's reply was muffled by his hands, sweeping them over his face before looking back at Finch again, expecting to receive even more bad news. There was a strange expression on Finch's face, which John didn't know how to decipher. 

Harold exhaled audibly, locking his eyes with John's. "I'm glad that you are still here."

Unsure of what to say, John kept staring at his friend. Out of their own volition the corners of his mouth inched upwards. Finally, he softly said, "I'm glad, too." 

Finch minutely nodded his head, both of them understanding what the other was saying in not so many words. He turned his attention back to his screens, easily falling back into their usual bickering. 

"Good. Because it's your turn to wash Bear this week."


	5. Epilogue

Detective Lionel Fusco was leaning against a wall at the entrance of a narrow alley across the street of a small café. The weather had finally decided that its gloomy days were over and the sidewalks were buzzing with people enjoying the first real warm sun-rays of the year, prompting the first enterprising café owners to set up tables and chairs outside. 

Although, the temperatures hadn't reached t-shirt levels yet, the idea had paid off. From what Fusco had seen since he'd taken up his post across the street, the half a dozen tables had constantly been occupied, keeping the attractive young waitress, who Mr. Vocabulary had asked Fusco to keep an eye on while Mr. Sunshine was 'recuperating', busy. 

Lionel yawned. He hadn't slept well the night before, as the adrenalin rush of the day's events had left him in a nervous jitter. Though, he'd never admit it out loud, but those minutes of fighting for Mr. Happy's life had really gotten to him. And Finch looking slightly accusing at him as he stated that besides a slight concussion his fun loving friend had also suffered two broken ribs hadn't helped, either. 

Lionel refused to feel guilty about that, but still, the memory of the sound of bones breaking shooting through his mind every time he'd been finally close to sleep last night was the main reason why he felt like he could fall asleep right where he was, standing up.

Shaking his head to clear his mind he tried stifling another yawn that could have had the potential of dislodging his jaw from his cheekbones.

"Hello, Lionel." A soft, raspy voice whispered right behind his left ear. 

Startled, Fusco visibly jerked, yelping an ungraceful "Jesus!" and immediately cursed Wonderboy's knack for stealthy approaches. Where the hell had he come from? The alley was a cul-de-sac with no exits. Lionel had checked it out, before.

He turned around and resisted the urge to step back as he found his personal space crowded by Mr. Well-Adjusted, who looked slightly amused. Or about to rip his head off. But figuring that the thought of ripping someone's head off would probably be highly entertaining to Mr. Dark, Tall and Trigger-Happy, Lionel was putting his money on 'amused'.

Reese's lips twitched into an half-sided smirk. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but it's just me."

"What are you doing here?" Fusco blurted out before his brain had a chance to censor his mouth.

The smirk vanished off of Reese's face, brows minutely drawing together to form a frown. "Please, Lionel", he murmured, inflicting his voice with his customary dry, yet menacing tone, "contain your excitement."

"I'm sorry", Fusco mumbled, throwing a glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the waitress busing tables, before turning back to Reese. "Just surprised to see ya. Glasses said you'd be out of commission for a couple of days."

"Yeah, well", John sighed, finally taking a step back, "Finch has been known to having been wrong before."

At that, Fusco's suspicion rose that the walking dictionary probably had no idea that his muscle was up and about, skulking through the streets of New York. "Lemme guess, he thinks you're resting?" It wasn't really a question.

Fusco had never thought that John Reese could pull of looking innocent, because, somehow, there was always a hint of deadly menace surrounding the guy - at least when he was talking to the Detective - but this time, he came pretty damn close.

"You do know that he's probably listening in right now, right?" Lionel asked with a hint of exasperation. 

Both brows inched upwards, perfecting the look of innocence on John's face. "He just said to get some rest ... He never specified where."

"Uh-hu." Fusco drawled the syllables out, deciding that he was definitely going to stay out of it. 

He was saved from awkwardly changing the topic, as Reese looked around him, across the street, checking out the café and its patron, inquiring, "Anything interesting come up, yet?"

Fusco followed his gaze. "Nah, nothing worth mentioning."

Reese kept staring over Fusco's shoulder across the street, letting his trained eyes roam over the sidewalk. After, at least, 30 very uncomfortable seconds of having Wonderboy looming behind him without saying a word, Fusco spun around, intend on finding out what exactly Reese was doing watching him stalk their newest past time project. 

Apparently, Reese had closed the distance between them again to better observe the street without Fusco having taken notice, his question dying on his lips as he bumped into the taller man's chest with his shoulder. Usually, Fusco would have just gotten more irritated, but was thrown off by the painful hiss and the arm that shot up to be protectively placed around aching ribs. 

"Jeez, Lionel. You've already broken two of them." Reese rasped accusingly, slightly bend over. "Aren't you satisfied?" 

_Yeah, while saving your life, you ungrateful little prick._ Luckily, this time Lionel's brain managed to stop his initial thoughts to be formed by his mouth. Instead he opted for a biting "Yeah, well, it was either that or giving you", he used his fingers to form quotation marks in the air between them, " _'The Kiss of Life'_." Reese shot him a dark look, which Lionel ignored. "And I guess we both agree that Carter is far more suited for the job, wouldn't you say?"

Reese's look darkened just a shade more, his arm dropping from his ribs as he straightened to his entire intimidating 6' 2''. But instead of the snarky and/or threatening comeback Fusco had expected would follow his statement, Reese moved his gaze past the Detective, adopting his unreadable mask.

Squinting his eyes, Fusco took a closer look at the other man. He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he detected that Reese's cheeks had taken on a little bit more color. Fusco wouldn't go as far as calling it a blush, but he was pretty sure, that, for once, he had managed to make Mr. Fearless uncomfortable. 

Smirking to himself, Fusco also redirected his attention back across the street, still basking in his moment. 

"Thank you, by the way." Reese said softly, without turning to look at the Detective standing now beside him.

Still smirking, Fusco slightly inclined his head in acknowledgment. "You're welcome."

They stood in silence once more, although this time - and he might also have only been imagining things - it almost felt comfortable to Fusco.

"Lionel?" 

Fusco turned to his left, looking expectantly at Reese's profile.

"You do realize that your mark just disappeared down the street into the direction of the subway station, don't you?" Reese stated calmly, as if he were commenting on something mundane happening across the street.

Whipping his head around in time to see the blonde pony tail of the young waitress disappear around the nearest street corner, Fusco cursed under his breath and started to go after her. After a few steps, he turned around to see that Reese hadn't moved an inch. Spreading his arms in a 'what-the-hell'-gesture he yelled "You coming?"

With a smirk, that to Fusco daringly bordered on cheeky, Reese parked his hands in his coat pockets, and leaned leisurely against the wall. "I'm resting, remember?"

 

\- Fin -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Liked it? Didn't like it? Let me know what you think.


End file.
